


in a poem I can leave when I should have

by TolkienGirl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Introspection, Pre-Series, Snow, Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), title from a poem by Margaret Ray
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28360830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: She was watching the snow fall, watching the light flicker, seeing remnants of the past through fog, like jewels set in the misty ring of time. Silver to white to nothing, gray shadows, the deep hollow of the black sky: it’s beautiful.
Relationships: Henry Mills & Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard
Kudos: 3





	in a poem I can leave when I should have

The trees touch the sky, the clock doesn’t chime and the streetlight on North Main has never been changed. North Main flickers, and, when it rains, sputters sulkily into total darkness.

It isn’t raining now. It’s snowing, and Mary Margaret daydreams shamelessly, while flakes upon crystal flakes sting her upturned cheeks.

She stayed late at the library, rummaging through dust-laden boxes, trying to find something about the solar system that would appeal to fourth and fifth graders.

What was she reading, at nine? Ten?

Mary Margaret doesn’t remember her birthday, or anyone else’s, except for Henry Mills. Henry will be in her class next year—his birthday’s in August—and that in itself is strange. Mary Margaret…well, she taught her fourth and fifth graders last year, and will again this year. Everyone passed the grade. Everyone will pass it again. There’s no reason to be alarmed about having the same students—

She snuggles a little more deeply into her coat.

She isn’t thinking of Henry Mills, though, or at least, she wasn’t. She _was_ watching the snow fall, watching the light flicker, seeing remnants of the past through fog, like jewels set in the misty ring of time. Silver to white to nothing, gray shadows, the deep hollow of the black sky: it’s beautiful.

It is only December, but Maine takes winters hard. If this snow keeps up its tumbling pace, soon Leroy will be shoveling out a pathway to Granny’s diner, grumbling all the while. Soon icicles will dangle like daggers from the eaves of the mayor’s office, which is fitting.

Soon…

But what is _soon_? What is _long ago_? Mary Margaret shakes her head, chasing the thoughts away. Though Christmas is almost here, there is no real Christmas in Storybrooke. Everyone circles through Granny’s, admires the bows on the wreaths in the square. Then it’s gone, and the New Year will come, but no one will make much note of that either.

Christmas past, Christmas present, Christmas yet to come.

When Henry was four or five, they made gingerbread men at school. Mary Margaret wasn’t his teacher yet but all the teachers were in the room, and Mary Margaret ended up helping him. They were afraid of Henry, every teacher, even the principal…he was the mayor’s kid, and Regina’s name was on him like a dark cloud.

But he was a sweet boy, friendly and earnest, and Mary Margaret smoothed his hair down without thinking about it, as if she had a right to.

“You’re like a mom,” he said, and that stayed with her.

For her part, Mary Margaret does not miss her dear parents, lost so many years ago. She does not pursue herself at nine or ten or seventeen. She’s twenty-eight now. She’s fairly certain that she’s twenty-eight.

Next year, whatever that means, she _will_ notice that her students return with fresh, familiar faces. She knows, vaguely, that they will resume the same studies they’ve always had, and that she will let them.

How does empty peace wane so quickly to empty loneliness? She is tired of watching the failing light remain unchanged. She picks her way home, stopping only once—very near her loft—under a steadier lamp to watch delicate stars melting on her gloves. She slips on her front steps, catching herself on the doorhandle.

Then she goes in, up the stairs, into the humble home she has tried to make beautiful.

If it snows—if it snows hard—she will dig out her heavy winter boots and go for a hike in the forest.

She always feels as if she will find something there to give her life purpose, and her memories weight.


End file.
